


Hands made for war and love

by Tovarich



Series: Good Omens Celebration 2020 [25]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angry Aziraphale (Good Omens), Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Blood and Injury, Good Omens Celebration 2020, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Violence, angelic wrath, injured crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25170238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tovarich/pseuds/Tovarich
Summary: Crowley looked at the scene with wide eyes. Of course, he knew Aziraphale had been created for battle. He knew he had been made with the purpose to protect. But he had never seen this side of him. All he knew of Aziraphale was his softness, the love that radiated from him. He had never seen that halo of heavenly wrath, had never felt the power with which he struck his enemies. Aziraphale was slaughtering them, without an ounce of pity in his eyes. He was unforgiving and strong and beautiful. And Crowley suddenly felt very grateful that he never had to face Aziraphale in battle, because he would have had no chance against that power.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Celebration 2020 [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1727137
Comments: 10
Kudos: 152
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	Hands made for war and love

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for day 25 of the Good Omens Celebration was "Glorious". I hope you'll enjoy reading this!

Crowley was peacefully sleeping in his bed. He had gone to his flat after Aziraphale and he got in an argument. In the first months after the apocalypse didn't happen, they had been thrilled to be able to spend all of their time with each other, but as time passed and a certain routine settled, they found that they needed some time alone too. It hurt, because for six thousand years they had lived in hope of one day being able to live with each other without constantly having to worry over the consequences. But the truth was that even though they deeply loved each other, they sometimes got on each other's nerves. They got in a heated argument over something stupid and insignificant every few weeks. Generally, the issue was solved very quickly, but sometimes they needed some space before being able to happily get back together. This had been one of those instances. Most of the time, Crowley went to his flat for just one night before returning to the bookshop the next day, but this time, he found the need to sleep for an extended period of time. It had been three days, and Crowley wasn't sure he was rested enough to greet the outside world.

The choice was taken from him, though, when he felt the presence of three unknown beings in his flat. Intruders, dangerous ones. The angelic kind. He wasn't completely awake yet, but the part of his brain that constantly stayed alert warned him of the threat. Three angels, this could be very bad. In fact, if they had holy water, it could mean the end of the demon Crowley. Crowley sat on the edge of his bed, frantically looking around for something to defend himself. He found nothing.

"Stupid demon!" Crowley growled between clenched teeth. They had become careless after some time, after not being attacked by angels or demons in the months that followed the apocalypse. The forgot that the threat was still present, looming over them, waiting for the best opportunity to strike. And now Crowley was going to die, and he wouldn't even have the time to tell Aziraphale he was sorry, to kiss him one last time, to tell him once more how much he loved him.

Coming to terms with the fact that he wouldn't be able to fight back, Crowley did the first thing his brain told him to: he hid under the bed. This was foolish, of course, and he knew it. But he had panicked. Obviously, the angels found him quickly enough. They took quite a long time before entering the bedroom, they had probably looked through the other rooms first, but Crowley could hear them getting inexorably closer. They sniffed, looking for the demonic smell of Crowley, and of course, they found him. One of them grabbed his ankle, dragging him from under the bed. Crowley tried to resist, digging his sharp nails in the ground. In vain, of course. They made a sickening sound as they scraped the floor of Crowley's bedroom. The nail of his left middle finger was torn off, sending a jolt of pain through his hand and up his arm.

There was no escape, no way out of this. Crowley was lost, he would die. He had no illusion about that fact. He might have been a hopeless optimist, he still knew how to be realistic from time to time. And when he was faced with his imminent doom, he had the honesty to recognise it. He felt tears prickle at his exposed eyes, his throat was tight, his chest heaving. He didn't want to die. Not like that. He would give his life a thousand times to save Aziraphale but dying alone in his flat while Aziraphale was still angry at him was unbearable. One of the angels lifted something that looked like a golden iron bar above their head and struck Crowley in the chest. The force of the impact knocked the air out of his chest, but the worst was the blinding pain it left afterward. He felt an intolerable burning sensation where the bar had collided with his skin. It was blessed. Of course, it was. The burn spread on his chest, covering it in thin black veins. He was panting now, helpless and hopeless. He had given up on holding back his tears. It was no use anyway.

Crowley cried. He was desperate. He couldn't think clearly through the fog of fear and pain, he couldn't fight, couldn't run. And so, Crowley did the last thing he could: he prayed. Not to God, he knew She wouldn't reply. He wasn't even sure she was still listening. He prayed to his angel. The only being in this whole universe he had placed his faith in. He knew with absolute certainty that if someone would come to his help, it would be the angel. If even Aziraphale had forsaken him, then he knew he was truly doomed. His lips moved soundlessly, forming pleas and prayers. He couldn't remember a time in his life where he prayed so ardently, even before the fall. He didn't remember believing in someone or something as deeply and completely as he believed in Aziraphale. He had never loved anyone with such intensity. Even the love he once held for God Herself paled in comparison with his absolute devotion to Aziraphale. He prayed and he hoped Aziraphale would come to rescue him.

The angels didn't seem to be in a hurry, they took their time inflicting pain on the demon that was writhing pitifully at their feet, grazing their blessed blades against his skin, just enough to draw blood, more than enough to make Crowley scream in agony.

When the first angel hit him once more with the iron bar, this time in his jaw, Crowley couldn't keep the scream the escaped his broken lips. "Aziraphale!" he cried, shouting the name out loud for the first time since the assault began.

The angels above him laughed.

"You really think the angel would come to rescue something as pathetic as you?" One of them sneered.

"That's ridiculous. You're nothing but a filthy demon. Unlovable." The second angel punctuated each word with a kick in Crowley's ribs.

The third angel grabbed him by his hair, forcing him to kneel before them. They kicked him right between the legs and although Crowley hadn't manifested an Effort, it was still a very sensitive part of him body. When the angel released him, he slumped forward with a whimper. "The traitor will thank us for getting rid of you, demon," they said, before sending him falling backward with a kick in the chin.

Crowley was starting to believe that all hope was lost. Aziraphale wouldn't come; he was alone. Still he kept whimpering Aziraphale's name with every new shock of pain that raked his body. He thought he was alone. And then he heard his voice.

"I think you're making a number of unfounded assumptions," Aziraphale said, his blue-grey eyes shining with anger as they landed on the three angels. "You seriously thought you could come after my husband and there would be no consequence?" He took a step forward, and the angels collectively took a step back. "You thought you wouldn't have to face my wrath?" Aziraphale's voice was hard, precise, confident. He showed no fear, only the determination to stop those angels from hurting his beloved. He stopped beside Crowley, kneeling to cup his battered and bruised cheeks. "My darling, I'm sorry I wasn't there sooner. I'm sorry I wasn't able to keep you out of harm's way. You got hurt and it's all my fault, my precious demon. I hope you'll forgive me." He tenderly kissed Crowley's forehead. He wished he could heal his injuries right now, but he didn't have the time. Those three angels weren't very strong, they weren't soldiers, and they didn't seem very clever. But they were three and he was alone. Unlike them, Aziraphale wasn't in the habit of underestimating his opponents.

He took another step forward and with a snap of his fingers, a sword appeared in his hand. It wasn't his original flaming sword, but it would do the job. He was confident in his ability to defeat them. For Crowley, he would destroy Heaven and Hell with his bare hands. And the three aggressors seemed to finally realise the mistake they had committed by targeting Crowley. In Heaven, the general opinion of Aziraphale was that he had gone soft after spending so much time among humans, that he wasn't the heavenly soldier he once had been. He certainly looked harmless, however, it was clear that he was anything but. There was a fire blazing in his eyes, powerful. The other angels believed his love for Crowley had corrupted him, they said his love for human things had weakened him. Now three angels knew for certain it was not the case. His love gave him strength none of them had, it drove him, gave him passion, and something to protect fiercely.

"Principality Aziraphale," the tallest angel said, sounding haughty but fearful, "I am sure we can reach an agreement. A mutually beneficial deal, that would solve this whole situation in a non-violent way. Don't you think?"

Aziraphale snorted. "It might be possible, although I must say I doubt it. It doesn't matter, though, because I have no interest in settling this peacefully. You hurt the person I love the most in this whole world, and you're going to pay for it, cowards." There was disdain in his tone, an aura of power and rage surrounded him. He was out for blood, he was here to avenge Crowley.

Crowley looked at the scene with wide eyes. Of course, he knew Aziraphale had been created for battle. He knew he had been made with the purpose to protect. But he had never seen this side of him. All he knew of Aziraphale was his softness, the love that radiated from him. He had never seen that halo of heavenly wrath, had never felt the power with which he struck his enemies. Aziraphale was slaughtering them, without an ounce of pity in his eyes. He was unforgiving and strong and beautiful. And Crowley suddenly felt very grateful that he never had to face Aziraphale in battle, because he would have had no chance against that power. Aziraphale drew blood and shouts from the three angels, deaf to their pleas for mercy, he lifted his sword again and again and cut through the flesh and bones of his attackers. They tried to run, to flee. There was nowhere to go, no exit, no escape from the glorious avenging angel that had come to Crowley's rescue. Crowley was entranced, enraptured. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the carnage. He shouldn't have desired Aziraphale so much in this situation, shouldn't find Aziraphale's fury so enticing. It felt wrong, but he still wanted Aziraphale's hands on him, those strong hands that were capable of breaking an angel's bones but that only ever showed reverence and gentleness to him. knowing the damage they could inflict to him but never would was making his head spin.

Manicured hands were covered in golden red blood, cream clothes soiled with the viscous fluid. He didn't relent until all three angels had been discorporated. When all that was left of the angels was a pile of torn flesh and broken bones, Aziraphale stood for a few seconds, staring blindly in the distance. Chest heaving, blond curls sticking on his sweaty forehead, angelic blood staining him. The stench of blood and death was overwhelming. Slowly, rage seeped out of Aziraphale's body, leaving him empty and tired. His fingers unclenched unround the hilt of the sword and the weapon hit the ground with a dull metallic sound. Aziraphale feel to his knees and crawled toward Crowley. Aziraphale's blood-soaked hands cupped Crowley's cheeks, wiping the tears that still fell from his eyes, painting his cheeks in red and gold.

"Aziraphale," Crowley gasped, choking on a sob.

Aziraphale kissed him, healing Crowley's torn lips with a gentle press of his own. "Shhh, my dear, my precious darling, my wily old serpent," Aziraphale murmured against Crowley's hair, "let me help you, let me heal you, my love." He snapped his fingers, making the mess vanish. There were no more corpses, no more puddles of blood, no more acrid smell. The room was back to normal, as if nothing ever happened. Aziraphale was clean, he smelt good. He smelt like himself, like he usually did. Like cocoa and old paper. He smelt like home.

Crowley nodded, burying his head in Aziraphale's shoulder. The adrenaline had left his body and he felt so tired. His eyelids became too heavy to be kept open, and Crowley felt himself drift out of consciousness. Aziraphale was his whole world in that very moment: his gentle hands undressing Crowley, stroking his bruised and burnt flesh, fixing it with every touch. His voice whispering sweet nothings in his ears. The reassuring weight of his body, the strength of his arms as they held Crowley. He was lucky, it was the last thought that crossed his mind before he fell asleep in the familiar warmth of Aziraphale's embrace.

* * *

When he woke up, a few hours or a few days later, Crowley's head rested on Aziraphale thighs, thick fingers brushing his hair while their owner's eyes were focused on the pages of a book. He kissed Aziraphale's thigh in order to get the angel's attention, grinning up at him.

"Did you sleep well, dear?"

"Mhhm," Crowley replied, not awake enough to form coherent words.

Aziraphale gave him a few moments, idly caressing his red hair, his eyes now focused on his demon's handsome face. But Crowley could tell Aziraphale was getting twitchy, he had started to fidget and that was a clear sign that his mind wasn't at ease.

"What is it, angel?" Crowley asked in a soft voice, barely over a murmur.

Aziraphale averted his eyes. His eyes were clouded by something resembling guilt or regret, and Crowley hated it. He turned his head slightly so he could press a kiss on Aziraphale's belly over the fabric of his shirt.

"It's just… I was wondering, uhm." Crowley patiently waited for Aziraphale to find his words. "You aren't scared of me, Crowley, are you?" he finally asked, unable to meet Crowley's eyes.

Crowley sat up, looking at Aziraphale with wide, confused eyes. "Scared? Why would I ever be scared of you, angel?"

"Well, you saw what I was capable of. I frighten myself sometimes. This power, the rage and fury that run through my veins, the strength. It's overwhelming and I hate it. But a part of me enjoys this, the thrill of battle, the smell of my enemies blood, the sound of their screams, of their bones as they break. And I hate myself even more for this. This is not how I want to be seen. This is not who I want to be." There were tears on his cheeks now, a slight tremor in his shoulders. It broke Crowley's heart.

"Aziraphale. Look at me." Crowley's tone left no place for arguments, and Aziraphale quickly obeyed, meeting Crowley's eyes. "This is not who you are. You're soft and loving and kind. Trust me, I've known you for six thousand years. You were protecting me, defending me, because I was hurt. Because you love me. It wasn't hatred that drove your hand, Aziraphale, it was love. Those hands", he said, kissing the back of Aziraphale's hand, "were meant to smite the likes of me, and yet they never treated me with anything but love and tenderness."

Aziraphale smiled weakly at Crowley. It was so far from the radiant smiles that usually lit up his cherubic face that it broke Crowley's heart. But it was a beginning, Crowley thought. It was a first, tentative step. Aziraphale still needed reassurance, and Crowley would give it to him. with a mischievous grin, he straddled Aziraphale's lap, catching his lips in a deep, heated kiss.

"Angel," he whispered, before kissing his way from Aziraphale's cheek to his ear, "I want those strong, gentle, sexy hands all over me. I want you to show me how much you love me. Make me yours, angel."

Aziraphale had never been good at resisting temptation, especially regarding a certain demon. And he had no wish to refuse the offer, not when it was spoken with such clear desire in his lover's voice, not when he could find nothing but love and lust and trust in those serpentine eyes.


End file.
